An Irish Country Christmas Part 13

"She can that, Fergus. Mind you, she'd need to, working in a place like this."

"Not at all, Doc," Fergus said, and Barry could see that the little man was suddenly serious. "A bit of craic with her's all right, but G.o.d help the fellah that stepped over the line. The lads would murder him."

It might not be quite the mediaeval code of chivalry toward women, Barry thought, but the Ulster folk did have their own clearly defined standards.

There was a sudden burst of laughter from further along the bar. Barry turned to see Mary standing, one hand on her hip, eyes bright, grinning fit to burst, and the men she'd been serving pointing at an obviously discomfited member of their number. All but him were laughing.

"I see what you mean," he said. The transformation in Mary Dunleavy since she'd quit her position as the henpecked a.s.sistant to Miss Moloney, the dress-shop lady Barry suspected of having anaemia, was quite amazing. He took a pull on his stout and ignored Arthur, who was making small "I'd go another pint" noises in the back of his throat.

"Fair play to her," Fergus said. "Her dad's very lucky to have her as a full-time barmaid."

"Indeed he is," said Barry. "In more ways than one." Not so long ago, Councillor Bishop had been planning to take the Black Swan's lease away from w.i.l.l.y Dunleavy. And he would have if Doctor O'Reilly hadn't enlisted the help of Sonny and the marquis to put a stop to Bishop's schemes and make sure w.i.l.l.y's lease was renewed for another ninety-nine years. Once secure, w.i.l.l.y'd been able to give his daughter Mary a full-time job, and she'd quit her position at the hat shop, got away from Miss Moloney and her critical, domineering ways. Her transformation from a timid retiring girl to the self-a.s.sured one who now stood before him had been miraculous. Here she was, gaily asking if he'd like another pint and remarking to Fergus, "Tell me again what they say about short men, or are you the exception that proves the rule?"

Fergus glanced down at the front of his trousers. Barry knew they were implying that there was an inverse relations.h.i.+p between a man's height and the size of his organ. Now what would Mary say?

Nothing, but her scalding laugh was a masterpiece of sarcasm.

Barry and Fergus both laughed. "All right, Mary. You win." Fergus finished all but the last sip of his whiskey. "Anyhow, it's time I was for home."

Barry finished his pint. "Me, too," he said. He set the gla.s.s on the bar top just as Fergus put his whiskey gla.s.s down.

"I'm off, Doc," he said. "By the way, will you be at the Rugby Club Christmas party?"

"I hope so."

"Great. Then I'll see you there. I'm captain of the fifteen."

"Are you not a bit short, Fergus?"

"Bless you, not at all, sir. I play scrum half, so I do." Barry heard the pride in the little man's voice.

"Scrum half? Good for you, Fergus." Traditionally the player in that position was a small man. The scrum half was the rugby equivalent of the American quarterback. Barry had learned about American football in one of the old Francis the Talking Mule movies, which had revolved around a champions.h.i.+p game of the American sport.

"And I'll be seeing Doctor O'Reilly there too, so I'll wish the both of youse a Merry Christmas then. It's early for that tonight with more than two weeks to go 'til the big day."

"Fair enough, Fergus." Barry spoke to Arthur. "Come on, Arthur." The big dog stood and followed Barry as he and Fergus walked to the doors.

"Night, Doc," Fergus said, as he turned to walk away. "By the way, how is Doctor O'Reilly? I hear he has a touch of the wheezles."

"He has but he's on the mend."

"Good. Do you know if he'll be at the club committee meeting?"

"I doubt it."

"I'm sure we'll manage without him, but tell him I was asking for him."

"I will, Fergus." Barry sensed Arthur nudging his leg. "I've to get the dog home," he said. "Good-night, Fergus."

"Good-night, Doc." Fergus walked away, and Barry with Arthur at his heels headed for Brunhilde and home.

With Arthur back in his doghouse, Barry let himself in through the kitchen door.

"Evening, Doctor," Kinky greeted him. She was wearing a pink felt dressing gown and fluffy slippers. Her hair was done up in paper curlers under a hairnet. She stood at the stove waiting for a kettle to boil. "I there anything you'd like before I head off to my bed?"

"No thanks, Kinky. Away you go."

"I'll just be a little minute, sir. I'm going to fill myself a hot water bottle."

"Go right ahead, Kinky. I take it there were no calls?"

"Not a one, praise be."

"Is Doctor O'Reilly still up?"

"Huh. Up and right back to his old self." She sniffed. "Not ten minutes after that nice Miss O'Hallorhan left, didn't I tell him it was time for some more friar's balsam?"

"And?"

"A good Christian woman wouldn't repeat what he said to me."

For a moment Barry worried. Could Fingal have overstepped the mark?

The kettle whistled, and Kinky turned off the gas. "You doctors talk a great deal about symptoms, don't you?" She started to pour the water into a cloth-covered rubber bag. "Well, there's a symptom with himself I look out for. When he's as carniptious as a wet hen"-she screwed the stopper in the neck of the hot water bottle-"he's back to his old normal self." She dried the place where the stopper was. "Sure it's a great relief to me to have him better, so." There was a small smile at the corners of her eyes.

"And to me, Kinky."

"Well," she said, "I'm for my bed, but run you up the stairs and see how he's doing. He's still in the lounge."

"I will," Barry said, taking off his coat.

"Doctor Laverty, would you do me one wee favour?"

"Certainly."

"Don't encourage him to have any more whiskey tonight."

He heard the concern again. "I promise." He said. "Not a drop."

"Thank you, Doctor Laverty. Now be on with you."

"Good-night, Kinky." Barry headed for the hall, and as he climbed the stairs he heard the ma.s.sive sounds of the majestic final movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

It was dim in the upstairs lounge. O'Reilly stood with his back to Barry, looking into the grate where the fire had died to embers. He had switched off the lights and was enjoying the music in the glow of the dying fire. He was singing along with the choir in his deep baritone, "Such' ihn ber'm Sternenzelt! ber Sternen mu er wohnen."

Barry waited quietly until the symphony ended and O'Reilly had turned off the Phillips Black Box. Then he coughed and said, "I'm back, Fingal."

For a moment he thought O'Reilly hadn't heard him, but the big man turned slowly. Even in the dim light, Barry could see O'Reilly's eyes were brighter than normal, and when he spoke there was a hint of a catch in his voice. "Do you know that work?"

"I do."

"It used to be a favourite of an old friend of mine." He pulled out a handkerchief, blew his nose, and dabbed his eyes. "b.l.o.o.d.y head cold. Makes your nose and eyes run."

So can some memories, Barry thought, but he kept his counsel. "Kinky said she reckoned you were on the mend."

"Much better, my boy." O'Reilly parked himself in his armchair. "Do you fancy a jar?"

"Not for me, thanks, Fingal."

"Nor me," said O'Reilly, much to Barry's surprise. "Come and sit down. We've a bit of catching up to do."

Barry sat in the other armchair.

"Now," said O'Reilly. He coughed once. "I'm much better, but I'm not altogether at myself yet, so I'll not be back at work tomorrow, but I expect to be ready to go on Thursday. In the surgery anyway, if you don't mind still doing the home visits and taking call for the next couple of nights?"

"Aye, certainly."

"Good," said O'Reilly. "Now, about the practice. I know you've not been too busy, but tell me about the patients you're going to have to follow up."

Barry thought for a minute. "Nothing very serious," he said. Then he began to list them by ticking them off with his right index finger against the palm of his left hand. "Cissie Sloan, pharyngitis. She'll be back if she's not better in a few days."

Even in the dim light Barry could see O'Reilly roll his eyes. "It's a good thing we've chairs in the surgery, not stools."

"Because she could talk the leg off a stool? The marquis said she'd talk the hind leg off a donkey."

"I think Cissie inhabits a world populated by three-legged donkeys and biped stools." O'Reilly laughed and coughed one short, sharp cough. "Who else is there?"

"Liam Gillespie should be home for Christmas."

"Good."

"Colin Brown won't be back-"

"What was wrong with Colin?"

Barry laughed. "A bad attack of 'I don't want to go to schoolitis.' His nose was out of joint because he wasn't going to be allowed to play Joseph in the Christmas pageant."

"Sounds like Colin. If I were his teacher, I'd keep an eye on him."

Barry remembered the evil look he'd seen in the little boy's eyes as he was leaving just as Doctor Fitzpatrick had shown up at the door. He was glad his responsibilities were for his patients' ailments only. "And then there's Jeannie Jingles's lad with pneumonia. I've forgotten to phone the hospital to find out about him, but I'll do it tomorrow."

O'Reilly nodded.

"Miss Moloney's back, and I'm pretty sure she has iron-deficiency anaemia. I'll see her when her results are in."

"BeG.o.d," said O'Reilly, "I wonder if she's a vegetarian."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"Might be worth finding out."

"Thanks, Fingal." Barry s.h.i.+fted in his chair. "Miss Moloney and young Sammy Lindsay's purpura are the most interesting cases. I'd a bit of luck there. Maggie says she's happy to take care of him so Eileen can get to work. I'll go see him tomorrow and let Eileen know."

"That was a good idea of yours about Maggie. Eileen'll be relieved."

"I hope so. It would be a shame if she had to dip into her Christmas savings. She works hard enough as it is."

"Och," said O'Reilly, " 'the world is ill-divided. Them that works the hardest are the least provided.' "

"True and poetically put."

"It should be. I pinched the words from a Scottish folk song." O'Reilly leant forward and patted Barry's knee. "It could apply to junior a.s.sistants and to country GPs."

"Come on, Fingal. You pay me a fair wage."

"Perhaps, but I have been sweating you a bit in the last few days."

"I don't mind. Honestly."

O'Reilly sat back. "I'm grateful, Barry." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "It's important that one of us is here all the time now there's a new man in the Kinnegar."

Barry had almost forgotten about Doctor Fitzpatrick.

"Anyway," said O'Reilly, "Kinky phoned him this evening. He's going to come over tomorrow to pay his 'courtesy call.' "

"Indeed? Well, I suppose we should get to know him. Professional ethics and that sort of stuff."

"Ethics, my a.r.s.e," said O'Reilly with a snort. "Better the divil you know than the one you don't. I want to find out more about the man, and if it looks like he could be a threat, we'll have a better notion how to counter him."

"True." Kinky was right. O'Reilly was back in form.

"So that's for tomorrow, and the next day I will be back at work."

"If you're up to it."

O'Reilly grunted. "And I'll work this weekend. You deserve a break."

"If you're up to it, Fingal."

"I b.l.o.o.d.y well will be. Count on it."

"All right, all right. Actually I'd not mind being off on Sat.u.r.day. I'm hoping to see my friend Jack Mills."

"Good, because I want the next Sat.u.r.day off. The tides are right at Strangford Lough, and I'm going to take Arthur out for a day's wild-fowling."

"Fine. It'll be my turn to work anyway."

"Thanks, Barry," O'Reilly said, rising. "And we both have busy days tomorrow." He yawned. "So I'm for my bed."